The curious stillness of his face
seemed to tell her that he was listening with an extreme intentness for
some start, perhaps even a checked exclamation, which would betray that
she knew something of Calder of the Sappers. Did he suspect, she asked
herself? Did he know of the telegram? Did he guess that her letter was
sent out of pity? She looked into Durrance's face, and it told her
nothing except that it was very alert. In the old days, a year ago, the
expression of his eyes would have answered her quite certainly, however
close he held his tongue.
"I could read the letter without difficulty," she answered gently. "It
was the letter you would have written. But I had written to you before,
and of course your bad news could make no difference. I take back no
word of what I wrote."
Durrance sat with his hands upon his knees, leaning forward a little.
Again Ethne was at a loss. She could not tell from his manner or his
face whether he accepted or questioned her answer; and again she
realised that a year ago while he had his sight she would have been in
no doubt.
"Yes, I know you. You would take nothing back," he said at length. "But
there is my point of view.
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